


Something Harder

by General_Lee



Series: Who We Are Now [3]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Character Death, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, M/M, Rare Pair Express, Rare Pairings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-28
Updated: 2018-03-28
Packaged: 2019-04-14 05:40:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14129292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/General_Lee/pseuds/General_Lee
Summary: A Dependency adaptation.(Because I’ve never seen a story about this guy.)





	Something Harder

JOHN

Vault 81, MA

December 15th, 2287

The final shotgun blast echoed off the surrounding rocky outcroppings. Several seconds passed before the resonance faded, leaving the surrounding area tranquil, as if that last eight minutes hadn’t happened.

Nate holstered his handgun and wiped blood spatter from the slick material of his vault suit. “Are you finished?” he asked in that have-amused, nonchalant demeanor of his.

Pumping his shotgun backwards, John tilted his head to avoid the hot shells as they ejected. “Sure am now.” He shouldered his weapon and observed his handiwork. Five raiders lay sprawled out on a rocky hilltop overlooking the Chestnut Hillock Reservoir.

It was a sunny day, nice, with no sign of radstorms on the horizon, the kind of weather that made folks drop their guard, pause and breathe deep. Both John and his vault-froze companion had fallen prey to just that. Of course, the Commonwealth being as it was, a troupe of raiders had appeared, probably coming from the Mass Pike Tunnel, and, in idiocy, rushed the human and ghoul. Craving bloodshed, John had graciously led the defense, heckling and laughing, aiming for their legs. The fight had been strained but brief, and now the attackers lay dead as last summer, their bodies riddled with holes.

After pursing his lips and giving an annoyed expression, Nate sank to one knee and began rifling through one of the raider’s belongings, pilfering ammo and caps. “Well, looks like you had yourself a grand old time. Lucky I didn’t arm you with a Fat Man – we’d all be in pieces. You wanna slow it down?”

“Nope. I’m good.” John knelt by a different raider, joining Nate’s corpse-squatting. As he moved, gingerly checking the downed raiders for needles or knives, he keep shrugging and rolling his shoulders. His coat felt heavier than usual, and he was still getting used to it. The weave that the Railroad provided had kept both he and Nate from succumbing to a wound. No raider had drawn their blood today.

Picking the pockets of a second raider, Nate mentioned, “So, uh, Curie said to keep an eye on you. She wouldn’t tell me –”

John gave a slow, deadly glace over his shoulder. “If you value our friendship, you’ll shut the fuck up,” he snapped, feeling a hot rush charge through his limbs.

Nate frowned and moved on to a third raider corpse. 

Curbing his glare, John took over rummaging through the final raider’s clothes. His thieving hand closed around a syringe of Psycho and he pocketed it.

He supposed that Nate was allowed to be concerned. Since being fetched from Goodneighbor, John had charged ahead, raining aggression on everything from angry bugs or wild dogs to human foes, leaving a trail of rotting bodies as Nate trailed behind. Violence was, if nothing else, a reliable release, necessary since the events weeks prior. He felt trapped in his new reality, playing the type of role he hated most – the victim. 

At least Curie had been true to her word, keeping confidentiality. Nate had been so busy coming and going that no one had been able to pin him down and tell him what had happened while he’d been off exploring the Glowing Sea. That, or the others didn’t walk to talk about it. Small miracles, huh? Still, the news of losing Strong had sent the man into a bought of quiet contemplation. John guessed he was battling with how he was supposed to feel over a mutant’s death.

Nate himself had been tight-lipped about what he’d found, if anything, in the Glowing Sea. He had, however, diverted a supply line to build something large at the airport, probably for some project with the Brotherhood. John couldn’t keep the sneer off his face when thinking of that tight-ass group of bigots. That Nate had thrown in with them seemed like a dangerous gamble paired with questionable motive. At least he kept out of the orange jumpsuit, preferring his trademarked blue one.

John had been fetched for a short road trip. His friend – General Nathaniel of Years Bygone – was taking him to Vault 81 to secure trade agreements, an opportunity which John had jumped at. John needed the partnership with Vault 81 to go through, seeing as how they had the most advanced medical facility in the Commonwealth. Good for the people, and good for him, as John required their supplies for himself. Curie’s radiantly blue remedy was John’s problem now, something that he had to create and administer for, well…as long as he could. Curie’s list of compounds was more complex than he’d anticipated though, and a partnership with Curie’s old vault, their technology, and their advanced trade routes would be a boon. Vaults were treasure-troves of medical tech and the best way to access those caches would be through commerce with another vault. Win, win, win. 

With a few more items in their inventory, the two of them got going, headed west. John dared to look over his shoulder and spotted the glow, of Diamond City in the distance, prevalent even in daytime, a beacon beckoning trouble. His warped skin crawled. Memories of the election aftermath squirmed through his mind. He swung his head back and hurried to catch up to Nate. “You sure bringing a ghoul won’t just send folks screaming and get me decorated full’a holes?”

Nate turned and walked backwards while he spoke. “You run one of the largest communities in Boston. You’re an emissary. I mean, can you imagine me taking Kessler on the road? Or Mayor McDonough?” He winked and faced forward again. “Believe me, you’re the least offensive option.”

John’s spine stiffened. He felt like Nate had unintentionally punched him in the gut. Was that what he was – someone on equal footing with the other settlement leaders, one that willingly handed caps over to raiders and another that sent ghouls off to die? Fuck…did John have some wild fault that he was too blind to notice? 

“Besides,” Nate added as they trudged up a grade. “It’s not as if you look like some dirt farmer. Work that respectable angle. Be charming.” He mumbled under his breath, “And thank God you’ve still got all your fingers.”

True. Some ghouls weren’t as lucky when they went through the change; their rapid decomp would leave them with all kinds of parts missing. John was still mostly intact, missing only patches of skin, some subcutaneous layers and a single baby toe. And, yeah, his damn nose, same as every other ghoul out there. It was the lack of that small feature that made smoothskins liken them to corpses. The radburns on their skin looked the same as any other burn tissue, and plenty of people had experienced losing a battle with flames and could have been forgiven, granting them an extra moment to explain themselves before people starting shooting. But the noses gave them away immediately, inspiring a vicious intolerance. John made a face and braced himself for the onslaught of offensive material he was likely to endure in the impending vault.

They ducked through a chain-link fence and passed several small structures, both pre-war and fabricated. A few chairs flanked the smoldering remnants of a campfire. Nate led John through a crevasse cut into a towering boulder. John shook his head in disbelief. A friggin’ vault right outside Diamond City. John felt monumentally stupid for not knowing about it. Then again, Vault 81 had been careful to stay under the radar. All trading parties had been sent out after John had left Diamond City for good.

After clanging down a catwalk and heading through an enormous hole cut into the earth beneath a hilltop, the dirt walls abruptly changed into smooth, buttercup-colored walls and exposed hardware. Everything became metal and blunt edges and pre-packaged comfort right down to the classical music playing over speakers. A guard with a padded uniform over his vault suit waved them over. “Weapons check.”

Nate handed his arms over without a fuss. When John hesitated, Nate gave him a hard stare. With a low sigh-grunt, John gave up his shotgun. “All of it, Hancock,” Nate instructed in a stern undertone. John’s eyes flittered to the guard’s, who had caught sight of what John was and now stared open-mouthed at him. Idiot. Still, best to play nice. Even if John didn’t like it, he got it. They wanted to make sure he couldn’t hurt anyone. John surrendered his knife.

Taking the lead again, Nate headed down a short corridor, nodding to several people as he passed, and the two of them ended up in an elevator. “I’ll do the talking,” Nate said, punching a button on the panel. The elevator rumbled and began to move. “Answer if questioned, but…please don’t cause a scene,” he begged.

“What, me? Cause a scene? Never.”

The elevator came to a stop. Its doors slid open and they both stepped out. John instantly recoiled, wincing and screwing his eyes shut. It took a few moments before he cracked his lids open. Christ, it was bright down here. The florescent bulbs that lit this underground haven were almost painful to look at. With his blown pupils, John could barely see.

Intuitive as always, Nate snagged John’s sleeve and led him forward. “Yeah. Sorry about that. They like to keep the lights turned up full. I think they assume it’ll keep trouble away.”

“Clearly, they’re wrong,” John grumbled as he cautiously made his way down a wide set of stairs. “We’re here.” He tugged his hat down lower over his eyes.

At the bottom of the stairs, Nate let go of him. John ducked out of the lights and pressed himself into the scant shadows of a corner. Blinking, he saw that they were in the center of a large atrium. The area was so huge that it had been cordoned into several sections, including an eatery and several side shops. People in skintight vault suits were everywhere, going about their business, identical ants in their mound. Judging by the direction of voices, there was at least one level above, though John didn’t chance the lights by looking up.

“Ah, welcome back,” a heavyset woman greeted Nate, stepping down a second set of stairs.

“Overseer. Hello.” Nate gave her a warm, disarming smile. “I’m sure you got my message.”

She raised her arm and tapped the face of a Pip-Boy attached to it. “Something about an inter-vault trade system. Ambitious,” she said with adulation.

“I’m nothing if not that,” Nate boosted with a confident grin. 

“I’ll say,” John muttered from his place in the gloom. “You’ll be eying my job sooner or later, General Knight, Sir.”

Nate shot him an obvious _don’t you dare wreck this_ look. The Overseer also turned her attention to him. She gave a sharp intake of breath. “Is that a –”

“This is my friend,” Nate cut in. “He’s the leader of a local town and chief financial officer of my endeavors. He’s trustworthy, and better at keeping track of caravan catalogues that I could ever handle,” praised Nate. “He’ll manage any paperwork or digital records necessary.”

The title was news to John. In the start, yeah, it had been beneficial to record and chart all of Nate’s zigzagging trade routes. He could siphon a portion of profits for Goodneighbor while teaching the random settlers tasked with becoming provisioners how to not suck, get killed, or lose track of their goods. Still, someone always wanted him to do more, bear a fancier label and a heavier mantle. Sometimes, John hated being smart. He’d have far fewer problems if he could just be stoned and stupid.

“Is he from your time? Or…before?” the woman asked in a voice just shy of being a whisper, side-eying John up and down.

“What? Oh! Oh, no. He just…it’s just what he wears.”

“Ya know, I am right here,” John reminded from his place in the corner, his voice rising. The Overseer stood up straight as if startled to be personally addressed by some ghoul. “Anything you wanna know, ask me. I’ll only lie if I’ve gotta. But we ain’t here for my history. Buncha folks – people, ghouls, synths – could use what you have to offer. Don’t know if you’re into helping those types, but all caps clink.” He nodded to Nate. “Listen to our boy here. We all talk about doing more, but he’s the real deal. They grew ‘em better before the war.” _Maybe that’s why ghouls are more decent than humans_ , he didn’t add.

A small crease formed on the Overseer’s forehead. She nodded to Nate. “Then let’s get talking. In my office?”

“Of course,” Nate agreed. He held up one finger. “Just a minute.” Crossing the atrium, he strode to John’s side. “Might take a while to hash this out.”

“Then best you do it without me.”

“Are you sure?” Nate looked confused.

John pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. As he shook it, he said, “Maybe it’s best if you leave the ghoul factor out entirely. The assumption is that all true Wastelanders are human. Folks get wind of my involvement, it might make things difficult on the front end. I’ll come in later, once you’ve hashed out a contract.”

Looking uncertain, Nate shrugged one shoulder. “If that’s what you want. Can you stay out of trouble for a few hours?”

“You know me.” John slid a cigarette from the pack.

“That’s exactly what I mean. Low profile, please.”

“Yeah, sure,” John nodded. “The lowest.”

With a departing frown, Nate turned his back on John and followed the Overseer out of the atrium, becoming just another figure in blue.

John lit his cigarette and gazed around, crossed an arm over his chest as he puffed. It wasn’t the first vault he had visited, but it certainly was the cleanest. Red alarm buttons were by the bulkheads of every doorway. They’d probably never been used, knobs prepped for an emergency that would never come. The whole place was too tidy, too nice, with everyone too plump. Its utopian splendor made John nervous. Since he wasn’t very good at holding his tongue around a group of sheltered humans, John busied his mouth with his cigarette.

“Hey, you! Ghoul! What do you think you’re doing?”

Ever so slowly, John turned towards the voice, readying his most menacing glower. “You wanna say something to me, friend?”

An older man, thickset with graying hair seemed to wilt a fraction at the venomous look. “There’s no smoking in the vault.” He pointed a trembling finger at a sign. _No unregulated substances allowed by decree of Overseer,_ it read. _Thank you for your cooperation._  

John froze, stunned by the absurdity of this bunker. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“I’ll…I’ll report you! Tell security that some ghoul isn’t following the rules!”

“Oh, for fucks-sake. I have an addiction!” He was tempted to shoot up right then and there just to piss this guy off. Nate voice whispered in John’s ear to play nice. He growled and pinched off the end of his cigarette. “It’s out, it’s out. See? No joy here,” he said, tossing it aside.

The man gasped. “There’s no littering!”

Fighting the urge to strangle this spineless soul, John spun and stalked down a hallway, away from the glaring lights of the atrium.

“Psst,” someone hissed as John walked by an alcove, little more than dip in the wall. “If you wanna light up in the lower levels, you can. No one’ll bother you there.”

John stopped and looked down both sides of corridor before stepping into the small niche in the paneling, pipes curving along the wall. Backed into the nook, a skinny kid sat atop a squat piece of Vault-Tec equipment. He had a wasted appearance, thin as a rail, his Pip-Boy looking massive on his scrawny forearm. His dark hair had been buzzed into stripes on the sides, the length longer on top. A bottle of beer dangled from one of his hands.

“You doin’ okay, brother?” John asked, cocking his head. “It’s 11:30 in the morning.”

“I’m...on a break.”

Far be it for John to judge. “Just askin’. If you had a second bottle, I might be tempted to join you.”

The young man bit his lip. He took a quick swig from his bottle, then motioned John closer. “You look really cool,” he whispered in John’s ear. “Thought you should know that.”

A wide grin split John’s face. Two minutes and already this guy was his favorite person on Earth. The unwarranted flattery made him feel a little giddy. And a little reckless. He leaned against the wall and slid down, crouching a bit until they were at the same level.

“If I had that second bottle –” the kid cringed, clearly buzzed “ – I might not share.”

John laughed. “Oh, buddy. I think you’re in the wrong place.”

“No kidding.” The kid took another sip. Footsteps rang, coming down the hall. He turned on his seat, twisting until he faced the wall. His grip on the bottle tightened as they passed. When the hall was clear again, he looked over his shoulder then back at John, staring him straight in the eye. “And if I did have that second bottle…I might trade it for something harder.”

John’s smile faded into something more sultry, more knowing. The kid stared at him with the kind of glassy-eyed interest that John recognized as a junkie on the prowl. He knew that look well; it was often his own. “What’s your poison?”

“You, um…you got any Jet?”

Something fluttered in John’s chest and he had to look down at the floor lest he laugh again. “A man after my own heart,” he stated with reverence. “I, uh…I might be able to set you up,” John offered in a low, coy voice. “Where you wanna do this?”

The young man’s eyes widened. His irises matched the color of his vault suit. “My room? We can go now.”

“I thought you were on break?”

“I take a lot of breaks.”

John straightened. He hoped that Nate took his goddamned time before looking for him. “Lead the way.”

The kid fumbled to chug his drink and quickly stash the bottle. “This way.”

As he followed, John huffed. He’d been looking at the back of a vault suit all day. It was strange to see numbers other than Nate’s, though, as he’d gotten used to accompanying his pre-war popsicle friend.  

The walk was short, just down the hall and around a corner. Luckily, this section, with its rows of doors, seemed to be residential and empty, the residents busy with their daytime work. John felt a subtle relief at escaping the open stares of the vault dwellers. It wasn’t their fault, he knew. They were just spoiled silly and ignorant. But he’d seen ignorance get plenty of folks killed before.

The kid made John pause in the doorway to a darkened room. “Wait here a sec,” he said and ducked into the blackness. A dull lamp flickered on at the back of the unit. Its yellow light only illuminated a portion of the apartment, leaving the rest of the room shrouded in shadows. John crossed the threshold and found two narrow beds in different corners and two dressers decorated in different tastes. A shared unit, large by vault standards.

“Where’s your roomie?” John asked. The door slid shut behind him.

“My sister. She’s at work.” The kid swept a bunch of scrap electronics, empty bottles and wiring off the furthest bed. A collection of pre-war Halloween décor hung on the far wall. Seemed like the guy had a nice, morbid sense of humor, the kind John appreciated.

John sauntered over and ran his fingers over the top of his dresser. No dust. That seemed weird. “No breaks for her?”

“I…No,” the young man stammered, picking items off the floor and stowing them in their proper drawers. He halted his flurry of activity and cleared his throat, collecting himself. “Sorry, I’m a little scattered when I’m about to…I’m Bobby. De Luca.”

“Heya, Bobby. Call me John,” he said, going for the personal touch. Only a handful of people called him by his first time, none of whom he currently liked.

“Oh. Okay. Hi.” As if suddenly nervous, Bobby turned and faced John fully, his hands clasped behind his back. “Look, I…I don’t want you to think that I’m a…that I can’t help…You won’t say anything right?”

“Who’s gonna listen to me? I’m just some shuffler showin’ up and upsettin’ the way of things. Everyone’s too disgusted to look at me let alone listen.”

Bobby frowned, his bright eyes troubled. “I don’t think you’re disgusting. You’re different. Being stuck in this vault for my whole life…I don’t get to see much that’s different.” 

They looked at each other and lapsed into a quiet moment. There was an instant, a feeling that John couldn’t place, that seemed familiar. “So,” John rasped, fixing his best smile in place. “Let’s do this.”

With a shy grin, Bobby sat down on his bed. “Please,” he said, gesturing to the spot next to him.

Never one to turn down sharing a bed with someone, John joined him, taking a hearty seat. The mattress was made from foam, not springs, and, boy, did it feel great beneath him. If all went well, this could be his favorite trip. Or, at least one he didn’t live to regret.

From his inner pockets, John procured two Jet inhalers and handed one off to Bobby. The young man stared at it, cradling the chem in his palms. “What do I owe you?” 

John shook his head. “I’m about to make a bunch of caps from your vault. Call it a gift.” Bobby beamed down at his Jet before taking proper hold of it. John raised his. “To new friends and adventures,” he toasted. They knocked inhalers together before bringing them to their mouths and taking deep gulps.

They sat side by side, slumped with their backs against the wall for some time. It was incredible to be able to trip quietly in a darkened room without some Triggerman, or Preston, barging and needing something. John felt so alive and aware of his own body yet removed from it. They’d breathe rattled breaths and take another hit, sinking deeper into that pleasure-pit.

When Bobby took hold of his hand he almost jumped straight up, that small sensation going straight into his bones, making them throb in tune with his heartbeat. Through half-lidded eyes, Bobby ran a thumb over the grooves on back of John’s hand, sliding gentle digits up to touch his fingertips. The soft tracing felt sublime. “Somebody from the science sector once spilled acid on his hand,” Bobby slurred, enthralled by whatever he was seeing. “Looked a lot like your hand.”

That insistent feeling kept bubbling in John’s chest, trying to make its presence known. John was so proud of this stranger. The world would benefit by having more people like Bobby in it, people who greeted the strange or different without fear, but with innocent curiosity and understanding.

Bobby’s fingertips were scratching the inside of John’s palm now, and it was all he could do to keep from squirming. “My sister wants me to quit,” mentioned Bobby, dragging what seemed to be a heavy head up to look at John.

John toked another puff of Jet. “Your sister sounds like a drag,” he rasped through the smoke. “Ain’t her life.”

“Heh. Yeah, right? Overseer said she’d kick me out if I keep using.”

“So leave. Goodneighbor’d have you. We could do this every day.”

Bobby took another huff, John’s hand in his lap, and smiled.

A sharp pang and John was stone sober for a moment. Oh. He remembered this feeling now. Attraction. Connection. The possibility of being with someone, the newness of it. John would have been equally content to settle for a pretty girl instead of a gaunt young man, but Bobby was cute enough and they shared the same vices. Hell – what’s the worst that could happen? He owed himself a night – or more – to put the mess of Danse’s reappearance behind him.   

As John sank back into the slow, weightless comfort of the Jet, he wriggled his fingers, lacing them with Bobby’s. Heat rushed to his head and expended in his chest. He brought Bobby’s hand to his mouth and dragged withered lips over the man’s wrist and palm, trailing hot breath over taut pale skin. “You said _something harder_. Hard enough for you?”

Drowning in sensation, Bobby’s eyes had closed. He cracked them open, thin slivers of brilliant blue, unfocused from the Jet. “Well, I... that depends. What do you mean?”

Succumbing to a wicked grin, John tucked their entwined hands under his chin and set his inhaler aside. With his free hand he reached for the zipper at the collar of Bobby’s suit. Pinching the tab, he leisurely dragged it down.

Bobby’s eyes popped fully open and he jolted. He pulled his hand free and wiggled out of reach, clutching his vault suit collar. “Oh...uh…hey. The chems, yeah. But the other stuff? Not so much.”

“Because I look like Brahmin carpaccio?” John’s respect dwindled.

“Because I’m not...,” he stalled, fiddling to pull the zipper back up. “I don’t…with men.”

_Well, I guess there’s that little caveat._ John covered his mouth with a fist, clearing his throat to hide his embarrassment. “Ah. I feel you.” John had fallen into a fantasy and gotten excited over nothing. He felt immature and foolish. “Can’t have it all, can we?” The chem effects ebbed, dumping him back in reality. Fighting hard, John plastered a smile back on his face. He dug around in a pocket. “Doesn’t mean we can’t have a different kind of fun,” he said, holding up the syringe of Psycho he’d taken from that raider.

Bobby’s eyes went wide, his mouth opening in anticipation. “Is that what I think it is?”

“If what you’re thinkin’ is one hell of a rush, then yes. Though you might wanna hide any breakables first.”

“You’d offer that even if I’m not –”

“It’s fine. You’re fine. We’re fine. Just…forget about it, okay?” The shame burned bright, lighting John up on the inside. _Stupid. Stupid._ _That’s not an option anymore_ , he scolded himself. If he was lucky, the Psycho trip would leave much Bobby’s short-term memory fragmented. Maybe he wouldn’t even remember John.

He placed the Psycho in Bobby’s open palm. “How to I do this?” Bobby breathed, voice husky at the lure of a new chem.

“You want me to…?”

“Yes. Oh, God, yes.” Eager, Bobby struggled to shove the sleeve of his vault suit up, the fabric fighting him for every inch. That was when John realized just how bad off Bobby was. Strung out, the Jet wasn’t enough. After a time, the Psycho wouldn’t be enough. John intimately knew the pattern. He felt morally torn at encouraging addiction, but Bobby’d consented, he wanted it. Besides, humans had the benefit of addiction treatments while ghoul metabolisms made such options impossible. At least he could make Bobby feel good for a short period of time.

John sighed and pried the cap off the needle. He took Bobby’s hand – boy, did the scenario felt different now – and handled the injection with practiced care. “There ya go,” he purred, desperately searching for the humor in this situation. “Looks like I took your cherry.”

Slumping back on his bed, Bobby’s shoulders banging against the wall as the chem flushed through his veins. “That’s…I…Oh, man…It’s hot,” he finally managed to sputter. “It feels hot.” His bony chest heaved, the gold in his suit catching the lamplight and making the fabric glimmer. Sweat beaded on his face as he writhed.

“I’ll say.” John had to admit, he was taking great pleasure in watching Bobby’s trip. It was a little erotic.

Bobby shook his head, damp hair sticking to his forehead. “No, it’s...it’s like my veins are burning.” His breaths turned rapid and shallow. He clutched at his chest and grimaced. His Pip-boy began emitting a series of tiny pings. He pitched forward, gasping, eyes wide and terrified. “God…I…I can’t breathe! I can’t –”

A rush of cold spread through John’s body as he scrambled to his feet. Bobby toppled sideways, collapsing on his own bed, fingers tight in the fabric of his vault suit while his open mouth tried to suck in air. He began to convulse. The soft foam of the mattress absorbed any sound of his movement.

Darting across the room, John slammed his fist against the panic button by the bulkhead. Red light filled the room, coming down from bulbs near the ceiling. An alarm wailed as Bobby continued to thrash.

John lost the next hour.

At some point, the alarm stopped ringing and the red lights turned off. People came and went, their voices unclear, passing before John’s eyes in white-coated or blue-suited blurs. A young woman with a high ponytail keep screaming, wielding punches at the walls, leaving smears of blood on pristine wallpaper as the skin over her knuckles tore until she was restrained by security. Nate was the doorway, speaking animatedly with the Overseer.

Two physicians lifted a white body bag. The light corpse inside it gave them little trouble. “The children are in their rooms,” that fat Overseer informed them as they passed. “But try and take the rear corridors. I don’t want panicked rumors to flare up.” One of the doctors nodded, and they were gone, disappearing around the bulkhead. The bereaved woman gave up, sagging in the arms of the security officers, continuing to cry even as they led her away. The Overseer rushed to accompany her.

John found himself in a corner. He must have backed out of the way because Bobby’s bed was now off to the right, and John was wedged between the other bed and its dresser. He was sitting on the floor with his hands clasped in his lap. Stunned and in shock, he struggled to not shed tears. Curie was the only one that knew about his freaky green teardrops and he wanted to keep it that way. They weren’t real tears anyway, just droplets of radioactive waste.

The room was silent for a little while, though John couldn’t tell for how long.

Nate crouched to his level. “Are you alright?”

John clenched his teeth. The woman – the sister? – had the right idea. He felt like screaming until there was nothing left.

“Oh, Hancock…what were you thinking?” Nate’s brown eyes were sad and tinged with traces of pity.

“…he was nice to me,” was all John could say. It sounded like a pitifully lame excuse to his ears.

“He was a twenty-year-old with a heart condition.”

John flinched at the broken tone in Nate’s voice. “How the hell would I have known that?” he snapped, giving Nate a surly look.

“ _He_ knew that.” Nate’s eyes weren’t angry or accusatory, just worried. “He was an addict who couldn’t control himse–”

“Did I kill him?” John had killed plenty of people. Though, to be fair, they had all deserved it.

Nate stood and lifted his hands in a defenseless shrug. “I can’t give you a hard answer. That drug sure did.”

“I thought…” John’s lungs felt heavy, reluctant to expand. He grunted and looked away. Images of events, almost memories – waking up next to Bobby in Goodneighbor, a life they might have known, Danse in his epic jealousy – flashed by like photographs. John smiled without humor, threads of madness playing games with his mind. “Doesn’t fuckin’ matter what I thought. Nevermind.”

Giving an unhappy sigh, Nate looked away. “Everyone had been trying to help him. He didn’t want to change. You couldn’t have known. He might have even wanted this. Maybe it’s better this way…”

“Is that what you’re gonna say about me when I’m gone?” John growled. “That the world is better off?”

“What? No, I didn’t mean –”

John stood, invigorated by wild fury. The effects of chems and stress made him wobble. “That I was a chemmed-out fuck up? That I did jack shit to help people? Well, I guess we are what we leave behind, right?”

Nate grabbed at John’s arms to steady him and, if he had it, John would have sunk his knife into the man’s belly for giving him that confused, disappointed look. A flash of rage passed over him, and the absolute fear of feeling it stunned John into stillness. Feral echoes played tricks on him, and for a few seconds, he didn’t know where he was. When he found his way back to reality, Nate was still there, still supporting him. He felt poised on the edge of a knife, wary of slipping and cutting himself open. He couldn’t tremble, _he couldn’t_. With Nate’s hands on his arms, the man would feel it.

“Look,” Nate stated, oblivious that John had been in absentia. “I don’t know who you think you’re talking to, but don’t pull that self-effacing bullshit with me. A month ago, you were proud of what you’ve done. Now you’re telling me different? What changed?”

“I’m not going back with you,” John spouted. “Not to Sanctuary. I’m going home, where, if folks wanna die from chems, they don’t make it somebody else’s problem –” he half-heartedly tugged his arms “– where no one’s supposed to feel bad or guilty or goddamned helpless!”

Nate held firm. “Are you sure that’s what you want?”

“Fuck yes, I’m sure!”

Nate dropped his hold. “…you’ll be missed.”

“Ha. Right.” John had expected more of a fight. Maybe he’d wanted one.

Nate looked…hurt, and more than a little concerned. “Okay. I’ll take you home.”

With careful steps, John circled away, wary of showing his back to anyone, scared shitless of that vulnerability. “No. You keep doin’ you. I’m a big boy, can take care of myself.”

Before he left that wretched room behind, Nate stopped him with, “Vaults are gonna sign the trade agreement, but…they’re going to leave Goodneighbor out of it.”

“Shit.” John swung his boot at the doorframe. Everything in his life was crumbling. With the loss of vault supplies, he wasn’t sure oh how to handle his condition. He’d just keep deteriorating. “Shit shit shit.”

He could feel as bad as he wanted about not securing his personal medical needs, but his actions had also greatly impacted his town. He’d let the people of Goodneighbor down, cutting them off from new trade options, killing the prospect of a respectful partnership with the vaults. 

John stepped into the hall. There was a crowd now. People chattered behind their hands, pointing and staring. “Yeah, that’s right,” he called out. “The big bad is here to ruin your quaint little fish bowl.” He held his arms out, self-preservation at an all-time low. “You got stones? Feel free to throw ‘em! That world of hurt you’re so terrified of, it’s right here with you. Always has been.” He pulled an old quote from his collection. “ _The Commonwealth will never be destroyed from the outside. If we falter and lose our freedoms, it will be because we destroyed ourselves_." He snorted. “So, keep beatin’ people down, making them shove shit into their systems just to feel alive. Or keep blaming the outsiders, the freaks, the people like me. Whatever’s easier. Enjoy your fuckin’ paradise.”

No one dared block his way as he traversed his way out of the vault. As he ripped his weapons back from terrified guards, Nate caught up to him. “Was that Washington?” he cautiously asked.

John pumped his shotgun. “Lincoln.”

Nate kept pace with him as he marched out of that underground hell hole. “Look, I understand that you’re upset. But please don’t burn it all to the ground,” Nate pleaded. “You’re part of my team. I need you.”

Blessed daylight spilled over them. John’s frustration erupted. and because he could never manage to hurt himself enough, he settled for hurting Nate. He took a stance and sneered at his former-friend. “Oh, go play with your new, pals,” he scoffed, and poked Nate in the chest with the barrels of his shotgun. “The Brotherhood. The Railroad. Even the damned Minutemen,” he listed. “You have the keys to my old home in Diamond City. Don’t think I can’t spot a hustler. You’re playing all the angles.”

Nate said nothing but met John glare for glare.

Using the edge of his barrels, he shoved Nate away. “You’re gonna have to pick a side one day, and for someone, for some group of people counting on you, it’s gonna be the wrong one. A lotta people are gonna die. And thank fuck I ain’t gonna be there to see it.”

John left his relations with the minutemen in flames, certain that he and Nate had come apart. He shot his way back to Goodneighbor, firing through a veil of green tears. They weren’t for Bobby– not really – but for himself. For one idiotic moment, he’d put the Hancock veneer aside, looked into the crack in his soul and seen himself, his old self, the one that had dared to want instead of take. He’d tried so hard to kill John McDonough but, by Christ, he stuck around.

So, back to Goodneighbor it was, back to monotony and problem-solving. The town used to be exciting, fun when he’d been rich and exhilarating when he’d had nothing but his own life. Life in the State House was comfortable, stagnant and predicable. Safe, he supposed, as he sat smoking in his office, feet propped on a table scattered with used syringes, empty tins and beer bottles. His days blurred together, in a fog of chems and discontent.

was it. The last place he’d see before he turned. Bobby’s death had reminded him that living fee had a bookend – dying free, under his own terms. This Goodneighbor could handle it – plenty of ghouls had gone feral and met their ends here. His guards would handle everything, acting fast, making sure no one panicked. He at least had that solace. Everything was gonna be okay.  

“Hey, Boss,” Fahrenheit called from the landing, her voice obscured through the door. “You’re gonna want to see this.”

With listless energy, he jammed his cigarette into the overflowing ashtray and sighed. _Now what?_  


End file.
